


my blood is singing (with your voice)

by nagia



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Post-Season/Series 02, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:44:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7506997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagia/pseuds/nagia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Werewolves on the streets of New York.  Apparently that's a thing that happens.  And the shitbags don't even have the grace to die if you shoot them a lot.  (Or: the Punisher is bitten by a werewolf, because his life wasn't crazy enough, apparently.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	my blood is singing (with your voice)

Look, it's like this, okay? Frank Castle has not been scared of dogs since he was a really little kid. He does, however, have a healthy caution of pissed off gorillas, because Lisa used to watch Discovery Channel all the damn time, usually hoping there'd be something about dinosaurs on.

So when a dog that lopes really, really weirdly and honestly very well could be a gorilla — and how dog and gorilla silhouettes are meshing in his mind, he can't understand, but they are — starts moving his way, roaring like Chewbacca, well, Frank shoots it. Poor bastard probably needs putting down anyway.

Frank shoots it six times. It flinches, but it never falls, and he ends up on his back with sharp claws through his body armor and teeth in his shoulder.

He shoots it a seventh, with his side-arm, and this finally manages to scare the fucker into not trying to eat a human. Finally reminds it just who fits where on the goddamn food chain. (Hint, motherfucker: rabid dogs ain't on top.)

Frank's in no real hurry to get off the ground. He knows he should be, because Christ only knows what's all over the ground in this garbage-strewn alley that smells vaguely like seaweed and a lot like piss. Christ only knows what was in the dog's spit, too. Shit, he might need to find some back alley sawbones with access to a rabies vaccine.

But he just lost a ridiculous amount of blood, he's pretty sure, because he's light-headed, and also the damn thing shredded his damn kevlar body armor like it was nothing. So maybe he just wants to stay here for a little while.

* * *

At some point, he passes out.

He feels better when he wakes. His armor is still torn to hell, but he doesn't feel light-headed at all. His shoulder doesn't even hurt.

The garbage smell has gotten worse, though. Which, okay, that's a little weird, because the cooler air should have dropped the smell a little. That's reality, right, that's physics. Garbage smells worse in the heat, and not as strongly in the cool.

Physics and his nose aren't getting along. He stands up, and as he does, he would swear he could smell everything. People. Food. Exhaust. Rats and pigeons and squirrels and cats and dogs. The three different hobos who last pissed in this alley. Every single thing in the dumpster.

And he can hear things, too. Every sound in the world is suddenly louder, sharper. The only thing stopping him slapping his hands over his ears is years of experience with firearms. Wincing away won't make the noise better, won't make it stop, won't make it feel better. Better to try to take this in stride.

Which, okay, this is all tripping balls level crazy. He shakes his head — like that's going to clear it — and staggers out of the alley. He's hungry, all of a sudden. Crazy hungry, the kind of hungry where the stomach eats itself and it seems like too damn much effort just to chew on something.

* * *

Frank ends up spending close to fifty bucks on food and coffee in a shitty diner near a part of Hell's Kitchen that smells weirdly familiar and homey.

* * *

Once he's full, he goes chasing that familiar, homey scent. It's a good scent, a safe one, and something in the back of his brain is itching for 'safe.' Howling for it. Like 'safe' is ever going to be an option for the Punisher. But still, he needs it, he's craving it, and finding someplace safe to hole up while he tries to figure out the mysteriously vanishing shoulder wound and the new sense of smell —

Well, that's not a bad idea, is it?

The smell lingers strong in the diner's back corners, and he finds it on the stoop, too. He loses it on the streets in the area. Picks it up again around a bodega — particularly in the tampon aisle and around the ice cream freezer, and he guesses that's when he starts to get an inkling — and then the trail leads toward an apartment building he knows all too well.

Goddamnit. He has no earthly reason to have come back here, and can't figure out for the life of him why he can smell Karen Page. But he can, and even if he doesn't understand why she's got a good, safe smell, she does.

She helped take down Wilson Fisk. She's involved somehow with Murdock and his crusade. Hell, she damn near shot him the one time. She's got a tolerance on her for crazy.

Maybe she'll have a tolerance for a dead man showing up on her doorstep.

* * *

Frank doesn't show up on her doorstep — he takes the fire escape. And the closer he gets to her, to the source of that warm, inviting scent, the better he feels.

**Author's Note:**

> Calling this a canon divergence since it is highly unlikely that Frank Castle will ever have to deal with lycanthropy in the MCU. Also, there basically _isn't_ a crack plot that I won't take seriously.
> 
> (This one is fairly likely to be updated sporadically, since I'm actually working on a Frank/Karen sex pollen fic and am also plotting a longer, plot-heavier Karen-centric piece.)


End file.
